Jeux Sans Frontieres
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Nobody could expect John Watson to easily forget or forgive his suffering at the hands of a gang of international jewel thieves, but even Sherlock didn't see this coming. Sequel to DANGEROUS. Rated T. SPOILERS: If you haven't already read Dangerous you may wish to consider doing so, for this story to make sense.
1. Back To Square One

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al - that honour belongs to ACD Moftiss and the BBC**

_**12.55hrs Thursday 21**__**st**__** February 2013**_

John stepped out of the cab and gazed for a moment at the tall Georgian façade that housed the consulting rooms of Jenaya Davies, the therapist that Mycroft had recommended. It had taken a week of nightmares and sleeping with the lights on, a week of feeling cold and damp despite not going out of the flat, just sitting by the fire, or curling himself around the hot water bottle that Mrs Hudson had thoughtfully given him, a week of seeing in both his flatmate and his landlady's faces that his terrified screams were worrying them, for him to admit he needed to see someone.

At first he considered Ella, but both Sherlock and Mycroft looked horrified at the thought of him going back to her. If he hadn't felt so low it would have been funny, to see for himself the 'Holmes Team' (Greg's new name for them) at work. Sherlock had ranted about how useless she had been both before John had moved in, and when he'd gone back to her after the faked suicide, but it was Mycroft who sealed her fate.

"Do you really think," he had asked, "that you should return to the therapist that willingly handed your psychological evaluation over to a complete stranger, along with your session notes?"

So that was that. Mycroft proceeded to recommend this particular therapist, and even managed to arrange for the funding that was still available for Ella to be transferred. John was sure there were no funds left from the army, but by now he was desperate for a night of unbroken sleep, desperate to return to normal.

As he stepped through the door he was struck again by how 'ordinary' the place was, the waiting room with its television in one corner and magazines scattered around, and opposite it the nice, matronly lady sitting behind the reception desk. She looked up and smiled as he approached.

"Dr Watson, good to see you again." She glanced down at her list. "You're a little early; would you like to take a seat?"

John nodded, an involuntary smile gracing his features, liking that this woman recognised him after only one previous visit, and acknowledging that he should have expected this from someone Mycroft would have hired.

Sitting in an overstuffed but comfortable chair, he watched as the BBC news started, only half listening until

'_In breaking news, the International jewel thief Solange Dufour was snatched from a prison van while being taken to the Old Bailey for the opening day of her trial. The Group Four security van in which she was travelling was rammed by a white Ford Transit, and the doors forced open by masked gunmen. One prison officer was seriously injured when one of the attackers opened fire. He was taken to St Thomas' hospital, as was the driver who was suffering from minor head injuries.'_

There was more to the story, but John was hardly listening. He knew from Sherlock that this was the woman who had ordered his incarceration, without thought to his suffering, in the knowledge that he would die. His friend had hoped that talking about what happened would help, but John's nightmares had just got worse. He didn't blame Sherlock for that though, he blamed her.

It wasn't a conscious decision; John didn't choose to leave the waiting room, but ten minutes later he found himself staring across the police tape at the two wrecked vehicles. Seeing Lestrade and Donovan talking by the prison van, he stepped back out of their line of sight, blending in with the usual crowd of onlookers that this type of scene attracted. He was close enough to hear two of the officers on the cordon discussing the direction the getaway car had taken. He stepped back further still when he saw a familiar figure alight from a taxi on the far side of the incident scene, and watched him stalk through the tape towards the senior officers. Turning his collar up against the biting winds, John turned and melted away into the early afternoon gloom.

O*O*O

_**13.20hrs Thursday 21**__**st**__** February 2013**_

"What happened Lestrade?" Sherlock strode through the milling police and forensics officers, his eyes darting around the scene to take everything in.

"It was well planned, Sherlock. Four of them, a driver and three with guns." He glanced past the consulting detective. "Where's John?"

"Not here." Sherlock swept away towards the open rear doors of the prison transport. Lestrade hurried after him.

"I can see he's not here, where is he?"

"He had a previous engagement, Lestrade, and even if he hadn't, I don't think being here would be particularly good for him at the moment, do you?" He crouched down and examined the road directly behind the vehicle, then skittered off to the Ford Transit to repeat the action.

"Who's on forensics?"

"New bloke," Greg folded his arms across his chest and frowned at young man as he transferred his attention to the lock on the van's rear door. "Be nice, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his mouth to make a snarky remark, but was interrupted by his phone. Staring at the caller ID he frowned; Mycroft. His thumb hovered over the decline button but something stopped him. Flicking a glance at Lestrade, who was watching him expectantly, he answered the call.

"What do you want?"

"John walked out of Miss Davies' office before his scheduled appointment." Mycroft's crisp tones carried to both men.

"Where did he go?"

"We picked him up on CCTV as soon as we were informed – the receptionist assumed he'd stepped outside for some air, but when he didn't come back in she alerted Miss Davies…"

"Who in turn alerted you, get on with it Mycroft." Sherlock snarled impatiently.

"We followed him to the scene of the incident."

At these words both Sherlock and Lestrade scanned the now thinning crowd but there was no sign of him.

"He left when you arrived, but unfortunately we appear to have lost him."

"Then try to find him again." Cutting the connection, Sherlock pushed the speed dial number for John, listening to the phone ring into the generic voicemail message.

Meanwhile Greg hurried over to Sally Donovan, who was talking to the cordon officers.

"Sally, have you seen John?"

"John Watson? No." She indicated consulting detective who was, at that moment staring in frustration at the floor. "Thought he said he wasn't here."

"Apparently he's been seen on CCTV." Lestrade watched as Sherlock approached them.

"It was meticulously planned," he advised the officers, "no use of amateurs this time." Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he looked back at the scene, a look of extreme concentration on his face.

"What?" Sally asked, following his line of sight.

"Why Sally? Why didn't they use these people for the original crime?"

"Be thankful they didn't," she replied softly, meeting his puzzled gaze steadily. "John may not have survived."

O*O*O

_**13.35hrs Thursday 21**__**st**__** February 2013**_

John stared sightlessly out of the cab window, seeing nothing but darkness, hearing the sounds of crashing, falling rocks, flinching at the sound of rumbling (tanks again?) only to realise it was actually the sound of his new phone, vibrating. He ignored it, shaking himself out of his reverie as the cab slowed to a halt outside Speedy's Café.

Pulling himself together he paid the fare and climbed out of the vehicle, hurrying across the pavement and unlocking the front door. Minutes later, he was running up the stairs to his bedroom, crossing straight to his chest of drawers and liberating his gun.

As his hand closed around the cold metal, he drew a deep calming breath, consciously making the effort to regulate his heartbeat, to still the tremors in his body, to silence the screaming in his skull.

Slightly calmer, John reached into his wardrobe, to the box where he kept all his old notebooks – glad now that he hadn't thrown anything away. Upending it onto the bed, he searched through the books, flicking pages, looking at names and dates, until he found the one he was looking for. Shoving it into the inside pocket of his jacket he stood up, and tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans he turned once more to the chest of draws.

Pulling out several changes of clothes and various items he thought might come in handy, he stuffed them into his old army backpack, swinging it over his shoulder as he ran back down the stairs to the living room.

Not sure what exactly he was looking for, his eyes scanned the room, alighting on one particular article that would help with the plan that was forming in his mind. Picking it up, he slipped it in his pocket, then grabbed a pen and piece of paper from the desk and wrote a note to his flatmate. Folding the paper carefully, he tucked it under the skull. He thought for a moment, then returned to the desk and picked up an envelope. He wrote an address on it and slipped it into his jacket pocket, then walked into the kitchen where he dropped his mobile and keys – he wouldn't be needing them. After one last look around he turned and headed for the door.

At the bottom of the stairs he turned sharply to his left, moving softly so as not to disturb their landlady. Sliding a hand along the top of the doorframe of the basement flat, 221C, he found the key that Sherlock had left there the day they found Carl Powers' trainers.

Quietly he locked the door behind him, silently walking through the damp, empty flat, to the door that led out to the small garden. In no time at all he was out and through the back gate, heading out and away from Baker Street.


	2. Into Thin Air

**13.45hrs Thursday 21****st**** February 2013**

Having gleaned all the information he could from the crime scene, Sherlock stalked towards the cordon tape.

"They'll be headed for Switzerland Lestrade, get word to all ports, airports, and the channel tunnel – anywhere they might try to get out of the country."

"Where are you going to go?" Sally asked as he walked away.

"My brother's surveillance teams picked up John returning to 221B – I'm going back." He paused and looked back at the two officers. "I admit I'm concerned. John's been trying to convince all of us, himself included, that he's getting over his imprisonment, but he wouldn't even fool Anderson."

He walked back towards them, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"It's obvious that his experiences in that cellar and the effects of the sensory deprivation have triggered his PTSD," he growled in frustration. "This is the last thing he needs."

Once more he turned, and this time he strode away without another word. Lestrade and Donovan shared a glance, and the Detective Sergeant voiced their shared thought.

"That doesn't sound good."

xXx

**14.30hrs Thursday 21****st**** February 2013**

Solange Dufour stepped out of the car in a quiet area of Trent Park Country Park, looking around in satisfaction before turning to her rescuers.

"This has been well chosen Gerard, away from prying eyes."

"We have checked the area well Madam, this is the last place the police will look for you." Gerard Altermann prided himself on being thorough. He had moved up through the ranks of Dufour's organisation by proving time after time that he was a capable strategist.

Now, he hid the smirk that threatened to break out when he thought of the bungling 'local talent' that the idiot Anthony Carter had hired to acquire the goods and to keep Sherlock Holmes from interfering. Now was not the time, but soon he would remind the lady that she should have left the planning to him.

Walking at her side, Altermann led his employer to a waiting car, opening the boot and handing her a small overnight bag.

"I took the liberty of bringing you some warm travelling clothes." He said. "I'm afraid the only place to change will be that toilet block over there, but we've made sure they are reasonably clean."

"You think of everything Gerard." Madam Dufour was still wearing the totally unsuitable clothes that she had taken to London, designed more to impress than to travel any great distance in winter.

She took the bag and walked towards the old brick building, and as Altermann watched her go he pulled out his phone and sent a text.

'_Stage one successful. Rendezvous tomorrow evening as planned – GA'_

xXx

**14.10hrs Thursday 21****st**** February 2013**

Sherlock burst through the front door and took the stairs two at a time.

"John!" he called as he pushed his way into the flat. "John where are you?"

Not bothering to remove his coat the young man swept through the living room and into the kitchen. He was just about to move on to check John's room when he caught sight of the items on the table.

Picking up the keys and mobile phone, he weighted them in his hands, thinking, then pulled out his own phone and dialled his brother's number.

"It would appear he left you a note under the skull." Mycroft didn't bother with the niceties of greeting his sibling. "That was about 20 minutes ago."

Sherlock slid the paper out from under the smooth dry bone.

"I imagine he left by the back door," he said. "Since you don't appear to have seen him leave."

"And there has been no sign of him on any of our cameras. I have alerted Penniston, he's on his way in now to take over the examination of the CCTV – not just for John, but for our escapee."

"You think that where she is, he'll turn up?"

"Don't you?" Mycroft asked softly. "Let's hope he has more sense than to try and tackle her on his own."

"He's left his phone and keys. I don't think being sensible is part of the equation anymore." Sherlock's eyes scanned the note. "He's left me no clues that I've found as yet. Let me know the minute you find him."

Putting his phone back into his pocket he walked slowly upstairs, mulling over John's possible whereabouts.

Opening the door to his flatmates room it was obvious that John had packed hurriedly, which meant he had some kind of plan to travel, although that plan would have been hurriedly put together, and therefore would no doubt be flawed.

A brief look round told him that his friend had gone armed, and the scattered notebooks on the bed reinforced the belief that John had decided to hunt down Solange Dufour.

xXx

**14.55hrs Thursday 21****st**** February 2013**

Lestrade and Donovan found the consulting detective pacing up and down his living room, muttering under his breath.

He looked up as the two police officers entered.

"Any news of the Dufour woman?" he barked out without ceremony.

"Not yet. We have a nationwide search out for the vehicle; the details have been released to the news agencies so we will have coverage on radio and television." Greg slumped down on the couch, but the Detective Sergeant remained standing in the doorway.

"Anyway," He continued, "your brother asked us to meet him here at three o'clock."

"Is John resting?" Sally asked, her glance flicking up the stairs.

"John is missing – again." Mycroft's voice made the two officers jump, but Sherlock merely flung himself into his seat.

"It's getting to be a bit of a bad habit with him, don't you think?" the woman observed.

"Sally…"

"Sit down, Miss Donovan." Mycroft gestured towards the space next to the Inspector on the couch, and then seated himself in John's chair. "Sherlock, what was in the note he left?"

The younger man shook his head.

"Nothing that will help us," he handed the single sheet of paper over to his brother. "Just that he has some personal issues to work through – for that read he's going to try to find Solange Dufour – and that he'll be back when it's resolved."

"On his own? Why hasn't he asked for your help?" Sally looked genuinely puzzled, her eyes on the consulting detective.

Sherlock stared right back at her, his eyes narrowing as he weighed up what to tell them against just how much they need to know.

"Since he came home from hospital," he said finally, "John has been having nightmares – worse than that – more like illusions or waking dreams. From what I can gather, at some point during his incarceration he thought I was with him – and that he'd called out to me but I hadn't replied."

Thinking for a moment, he added "I don't think he trusts me."

xXx

**16.00hrs Thursday 21****st**** February 2013**

Signing the register in the Travelodge, Mr and Mrs Gerard Altermann took their key and made their way to their room. Once inside, Altermann laid out a map of the West coast of Europe.

"We have chartered a small sailing vessel, no questions asked, and they will arrive on the estuary at Burnham on Crouch mid-afternoon tomorrow."

"And we? When do we board? I want the stench of this country and its filthy prison behind me." A sneer marred Solange Dufour's pretty face.

"Soon Madam," her henchman responded. "The tide turns just before dusk, we will join her then, and be on our way to Blankenberge."

"They can be trusted?"

"Yes, they need the money, and they shall be well paid – but only once we are safe on our way through Belgium." He smiled. "For tonight we will eat well – there is a superb restaurant nearby, quiet, discreet and softly lit. You will sleep in comfort, by this time tomorrow you will be on your way home."

The sneer turned to a smile.

"Excellent!"

xXx

**16.45hrs Thursday 21****st**** February 2013**

John stepped down off the train and adjusted the backpack slung carelessly on one shoulder, then moving swiftly between the chattering excited crowds he headed for the exit.

Once out in the street he stood for a while, breathing in the cold fresh air, getting his bearings. He was certain that he was safe from Mycroft's prying cameras, and that alone was a weight off his mind. With what he had in mind he didn't want Sherlock trying to get involved.

Checking his watch, he slipped across to a nearby cash machine, put in the card he had picked up at the flat and emptied the account. Shoving the money into his pocket he put the card into the envelope he'd brought with him and posted it back to his friend.

Next he slipped into a nearby travel agents, purchased a pre-paid currency card, loading it with Euros. He also bought the ticket for the next leg of his journey, checking the timetable, and choosing to travel on the earliest available ferry.

From there he headed to a phone shop and purchased a pre-pay mobile phone and this he also loaded with plenty of credit.

Now he was ready to move on. As he walked towards the ferry port, he dialled a number in Gutersloh.

"Steve? John Watson." He smiled as the voice at the other end roared a complaint that he'd left it long enough to bloody well get in touch. Cutting into the ripe language that travelled across the airways John added "It's worse than that mate; I need a favour – a big one!"


	3. Unknown Territory

**Apologies for the late update - I hope to be more timely from now on :)**

**21.15hrs Thursday 21st February 2013**

Sitting by the window in the hotel restaurant John stared unseeing at the dark Dunkirk streets. He could have been in any seaside town just about anywhere in the world he mused, as all the streets looked the same. The smell of the salt sea air took him back to his childhood holidays, yet the dark damp atmosphere felt menacing, aroused demons that made the ex-soldier shake with fear.

It took three attempts for the waitress to get his attention, and rather apologetically John ordered the cheapest dish on the menu and a glass of beer.

The food when it arrived might well have been cardboard for all that John really tasted it, automatically forking pasta into his mouth purely because he knew he should eat. And what would Sherlock have said? After all, he spent so much time trying to make his friend….

John shook the thought away. He had spent the two hour crossing staring out over the dark water, shivering, wondering if he had been wrong – wrong to trust Sherlock in the first place – or wrong to think the man had just abandoned him in that dreadful place….his thoughts were no clearer even now.

Staring at his empty glass he felt the adrenaline that had driven him to this place wash away, leaving him tired beyond belief. Paying his bill he wandered through the lobby and up to his room, barely taking the time to arrange an early alarm call before falling exhausted into bed. His last coherent thought was a hope that the nightmares stayed away, if only for tonight.

O*O*O

**05.55hrs Friday 22****nd**** February 2013**

In the pre-dawn darkness a silver Ford Kuga rolled quietly up to the gates of Gutersloh army base. Despite the early hour the base was a hive of activity, but still voices were kept low so they wouldn't disturb sleeping families.

The Sergeant in charge crossed from the gatehouse to the car, and leaning down to talk to the driver, he grinned.

"Hello Ace – your dad know you're taking his car for a spin this early in the morning?"

Surprisingly wide awake for the time of day, eighteen year old Alexander Edmundson grinned back.

"I get all the good jobs!" He laughed. "Apparently an old army friend of dad's is doing a bit of a tour of Europe, and as I've got nothing better to do for a couple of weeks he's lent me the car to take him out and about. Gotta meet him from the train."

"Suppose you've got to earn your keep somehow…." Stepping back the Sergeant signalled the man in the gatehouse to open the barriers and waved him on. "Have fun son."

With a brief and cheeky 'Thanks Sarge!' the young man pulled through the gates and drove away, negotiating the narrow streets through the centre of town and heading for the autobahn.

O*O*O

**07.10hrs Friday 22****nd**** February 2013**

Stiff from a broken night's sleep and being squashed between to well-fed workers, John stepped carefully from the TGV in Lille, and squinted up at the departures board. His connection was due to leave at 07.30, and he turned and scanned the station, looking for the right platform.

It was easy to lose himself in the crush of commuters, to let himself be swept gently along with the tide of people moving towards the train bound for Aachen, and once on board he found himself a corner seat by a window where he could watch the sun rise.

The gentle motion of the train gradually rocked him to sleep, but it was a short respite. The dreams that had never been far from his subconscious mind started to surround him and intrude on his peace, so much so that when they passed over a set of points the loud clattering jerked him awake again.

Drawing in a deep breath John steadied his heart rate, looking furtively around to see if he had actually yelled out, or if that had been part of his dream. Sitting across from him pretty brunette looked up from her book and smiled, and he smiled back, happy in the knowledge that he had neither disgraced himself nor frightened his fellow passengers – he really didn't want to call that sort of attention to himself.

Checking the time he saw he had at least another ninety minutes before the train reached Aachen. He decided that falling asleep again was probably a bad idea so he chose instead to make better use of his time. Pulling from his inner pocket the notebook he had retrieved from his wardrobe, John settled back to review everything he knew about Solange Dufour and her diamond merchant business.

O*O*O

**08.30hrs Friday 22****nd**** February 2013**

On the Kreuz-Koln interchange, the silver Kuga pulled into a service area, the young driver taking advantage of having made good time to stop and have a coffee and stretch his legs…..

At the same time on the other side of the channel, a police car was pulling into Trent Park Country Park, alerted by local council workers to a car that had been abandoned sometime after lunchtime the previous day. A nationwide alert had gone out to treat all abandoned cars as being possibly connected with the previous day's escape, so when the call had come in the local force had moved quickly to investigate…..

In Whitehall's less salubrious offices a dark head was bent over a computer screen, painstakingly cleaning and enhancing CCTV footage, mapping out the direction of travel before looking for the next piece of footage. Unfortunately once the vehicle was on the move the driver managed to find significant amount of camera free road, but Penniston was nothing if not thorough and precise.

Like a master puzzle maker, he gathered the pieces of the picture until he was able to advise his employer of route the runaways were most likely to have taken.

"You are certain of this?" Mycroft Holmes' cool gaze swept over the younger man.

"As sure as I can be Mr Holmes; see here, we can follow the car through Central London, then there's a break where either there are no cameras or the cameras are out of commission," he paused, and pointed to another screen. "But then you see we pick them up again here, on the A10 heading north from Stoke Newington."

"I take it you have passed this information to Scotland Yard?"

"Yes Sir, to Detective Inspector Lestrade, along with the make, model, colour and registration of the car, as per your instructions."

"Good work Penniston." Mycroft turned and left the room, nodding to his shadow as he left. Anthea immediately send an e-mail from her Blackberry, arranging an immediate increase in the CCTV specialist's pay grade.

O*O*O

**10.45hrs Friday 22****nd**** February 2013**

"John Watson?"

John spun round and looked up into the clear blue-grey eyes.

"And you can only be Alexander!" John smiled, shaking the proffered hand.

"My friends call me Ace or Xander, feel free to make use of either moniker." The young man relieved John of his backpack and led the way out to the car.

"Ace?" John questioned, keeping pace as they braved the wintery showers.

"Yeah, as a result of having parents with a sense of humour – Alexander Charles Edmundson – ACE."

John chuckled.

"I'd forgotten that! Could have been worse though…"

"You reckon?"

"Yeah, your dad originally wanted to call you Hamish."

"Really? What kind of weirdo name is that?" The young man looked horrified.

John choked.

"Oi! Actually that's your Godfather's middle name – MY middle name – not such a bad name either…"

If anything, the look of horror intensified as Ace stared at the blond doctor, wondering if he'd overstepped the mark. The older man walked around to the passenger side of the car and leaned against the door, looking at his Godson.

"…that is of course, if it's a name you can hide away. Be thankful I persuaded him not to." John laughed and climbed into the car, waiting for his driver to gather his wits.

"Dad said you needed someone who was used to driving European roads Uncle John, never driven these roads?"

"Don't drive at all Ace, it's never been a necessity, until now." He turned slightly in his seat. "Look, it's a long story, and I'm not sure how much of it your dad's told you…"

"Just that you need a driver and that…" Ace paused and glanced across at his Godfather "..that it's likely to be dangerous if you're involved."

John stared out of the windscreen, considering as he watched as the residential areas grew sparser and the countryside opened up and the road became autobahn.

"Ace, pull in at the next service area, so we can get a coffee and talk."

"Whatever you say Uncle John."

"Oh, and you can drop the 'Uncle' bit – that your father considers you capable of helping me out means that you've earned the right."

There seemed not much else to say, and silence settled over the occupants of the car as they put distance between them and the town of Aachen.

O*O*O

**08.45hrs Friday 22****nd**** February 2013**

Sherlock arrived in Lestrade's office moments after the report was received about the car in Trent Park. He had already received information from his brother about the likely direction the getaway car had travelled, and was already putting two and two together when Lestrade looked up at him.

"They've left the car in situ, and yes I have the information from your brother's man. Seems our fugitives were headed north – any ideas?" Greg raised an eyebrow, taking in the pensive look on the other man's face.

"Plenty. We need to look at the car, be sure it's them."

"Will you travel with me? Or will you insist on getting a cab?"

Silver-grey eyes flicked between Lestrade and Sally Donovan, the latter keeping a neutral expression as they waited.

"I'll go with you." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "At the moment this is the best chance we have of discovering where John is."

"You think he'll be in Trent Park?" Sally sounded sceptical, and then stole a glance up at the consulting detective's face. "No, you're as in the dark as the rest of us, aren't you?"

"If I am, at least I know what to look for if I'm to find light." He grimaced "Provided the locals haven't destroyed any evidence they may have left behind."

"They assure us it won't be touched until we've had a chance to look it over." Greg headed towards the lift, not waiting to see if the two detectives followed him. "Let's not keep them waiting guys."

Sherlock strode into the lift behind him, leaving Sally shaking her head in resignation – trust the Freak to have no clue about the niceties of letting ladies go first.

O*O*O

**11.15hrs Friday 22****nd**** February 2013**

Ace sat and stared at his companion, not sure what he should say or how he should react. In some respects he felt honoured that this friend of his dad's was trusting him with some very personal information, but on the other hand he felt he should be horrified that anyone could get away with doing something like that in England of all places, and concerned that John was trying to find this woman on his own, with no back up other than an untrained eighteen year old.

John watched the myriad expressions flit across the young man's face, patiently waiting for all the information to sink in before speaking again.

"You have questions." Like Sherlock had all those years back, he made it a statement, not a question.

"Why didn't you wait and bring Sherlock along? I mean, it seems from what dad says the pair of you've been making a bit of a name for yourselves, and wasn't it all to keep him out of the way that the Dufour woman kidnapped you?" Fiddling with the sugar bowl Ace couldn't look at his Godfather. "I don't quite understand."

"Okay." John smiled faintly. "I told you about the nightmares, well, in some of them I'm back in the cellar." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "While I was in there, I thought I heard Sherlock, but when I called him…" John shrugged. "He never answered."

Taking a sip of his almost cold coffee looked Alexander in the eye.

"Now, I don't know if he was actually there, my heart says no, my mind is sceptical. I know, deep down I know that he would not have just ignored me, he would not have let me suffer on my own, but that's the problem you see."

Ace frowned and shook his head.

"You look unconvinced." John was waiting for the young man to say he wasn't prepared to go on this particular adventure when he caught the ghost of a smile on the other man's lips.

"No, I'm just wondering whether I can find us some accommodation where your nightmares won't bother the neighbours. Come on, drink up John – we've a long road ahead."


End file.
